Full of Surprises
by bwahminionra7
Summary: Life, Jason Todd has grown to realize, is full of surprises at every turn. His 'family' is a particularly big one... A story that will either grow to great heights or become a forgotten bean in the corner. Warnings: potentially disturbing themes and/or graphic scenes will likely occur in the future. I will put specific warnings before each chapter for convenience. (artist: ?)
1. Introduction

Jason unfolds himself across the couch, finally allowing his legs the sweet freedom of contorting in whatever manner they wanted without strict declines from the more logical side in his brain. You can't take a quick powernap while patrolling Gotham, and the villains won't conveniently stop to let you catch your breath—not if they are smart. The lack of intelligence in morally _bad_ guys isn't too uncommon, and everyone is well acquainted with the old stereotype featuring a villain describing their _terrible_ plans in detail, only to give the hero an opening in which they can exploit known weaknesses and save the day by some miraculous chance. Been there, done that, it doesn't even sound very exciting after a while and the only amusement you can find within the rambling is an unintentional pun or, in the strange sort of cases Jason hopes to never stumble upon (again), a completely _bizarre_ plan. You know a person takes their veganism _way_ too seriously when they try to make animals intelligent lifeforms, simultaneously killing dozens in the process of finding this formidable 'cure' to a meat eater's existence. Calcification in the brain sounds awfully painful.

TV remote loosely in hand, he flickers across many channels of disinterest before finally settling on the news, of all things. _What am I? Insane?! Probably_ , he muses to himself, shifting to get a better view of the blabbering lady talking about what is probably the weather. Gotham's news reports are unlike any other city's, and they can go on for hours before finally finishing their grim broadcast. There is no shortage of crime-related things to talk about; the current continual talking describes minor burglaries and something about new speed limits to help enforce road safety. All boring.

" _And now, just coming in…"_

His mind starts to drift from focus; the level of attention payed from the start was low, don't mistake his open eyes for attentivity, but it seemed there were no major Asylum breakouts he needed to be aware of, so Jason felt himself tip towards Morpheus' arms. They're open wide, waiting for him to collapse, embrace…

" _A report concerning the masked vigilante known as Nightwing. Mr Jones is here to report."_

The pace in which he bolts upright causes a 'pop' in his spine and it's louder than a creaky floorboard trying to maintain the weight of a guy who eats too much McDonalds. All of Jason's body parts like to become audible in more ways than the typical snapping and breaking he—thank goodness they heal back stronger—often has to endure. _What'd the little b—h get himself into this time? _He highly doubted the flying Grayson's death had finally knocked on his door, but the concept of potentially irritable damage being caused in the older brother is _not_ a far-fetched theory in any way. It kinda comes in the job description.

Keppel eyes train themselves on the small rectangle in front of them without straining, waiting for information to spill. What was just a green screen programmed to look like the inside of a completely white cube mere moments ago was now replaced by a dark alleyway. He recognised the place thanks to a vague visit a few weeks ago, but it held no significance in the world of bringing justice. The high walls surrounding it would prove useful to any baddies trying to corner some helpless woman during the dead of night—or even the bleak of day, if they use tactical smarts—though it probably isn't too much of a criminal hotspot simply because what goes around comes around. Those guys could be cornered by authorities, vigilantes, and even other criminals. What business did Nightwing have there at _this_ time of night? It's barely 10:00 PM.

 _Dumb idiot probably wanted free fast food,_ he thinks to himself with a rumbling stomach at the mention of the last part, _I suppose I could almost see why. If I was a public hero with a ravenous stomach, I'd probably go around and collect any s—t I could get from those stupidly addicting burger joints. Wonder if he eats the same stuff as me… his diet is probably more nutritionally advantageous thanks to reoccurring visits with Alfred, charming bastard, but surely he treats himself on occasion. You ain't living, otherwise, Dickiebird._

" _Thank you, Angela,"_ the reporter cleared his throat nonchalantly, indicating that no major threat was in place. _"I am here with the fabled vigilante to ask a few questions! Mr Nightwing?"_ Jason scoffed internally at the formality. These people must have been taking lessons from some really _nice_ butlers to have it all stick when they're out of earshot. _They should try Alfred out for a spin! He knows everything. _Somewhere in the Manor, the aforementioned man's lips turned downward for seemingly no reason at all, Jason knows. There's nothing that you can ever manage to pull over his eyes, and its ridiculously crazy how well he manages to straighten out any kinks in your behaviour.

When the camera shifted to reveal what was beside the reporter, the all too familiar tight outfit graced many screens and eyes. He could almost hear the joined forces of men and women gaping in their seats… though it could just be an auditory hallucination threatening to occur.

 _Merry Christmas, bastards. Enjoy it while you can and hope he turns around._

Not to willingly praise the former Robin in any way, shape or form, but nobody—not even Jason—could deny the great body Dick has been blessed with. There is no doubt that the man would make a terrific supermodel and he could, under the right circumstances, become famous world-wide in the fashion industry due to the way he can wear _anything_ and make it look spectacular. For crying out loud, put him in a dress and watch him as he singlehandedly blows every drag queen in existence right off their stages. Put him in overalls and you have a new standard for 'farmer boys.'

 _Put him in a tight suit with some weaponry and you've got the hero everybody has to love without fail. Stupid golden boy._

 _"Oh, please, just 'Nightwing' is great,"_ he smiles warmly at the camera, making all but one person who can see it replicate the expression. Even the villains would get a kick out of his looks, if it meant they knew the exact places to put their knives later. Jason can almost _hear_ the sounds of their maniacal cheers and laughter… it's all repulsively vivid, too. He never can bring himself to understand the sheer enjoyment in torturing someone you barely hold a grudge against, which is exactly what the other lunatics—Jason doesn't deny his place among them—do in this city. He has every right to want Nightwing's throat within the grasp of his hands, and he has every right to slice upwards with a knife from the corners of his mouth, deranging him in appearance like the Joker. Ivy, Freeze and every other maniac in existence has absolutely _nothing_ on Dick; no reason to hurt him purposely is evident besides the sheer lack of brain cells and common sense. _You cannot complain about being put behind bars if you committed the crime, because it's righteous. You got what was coming for you. There is no reason._

Their interview travels along swiftly and without much awkwardness, not to the anti-hero's surprise. First, there are a lot of simple and easy questions, a method of buttering up the interviewee for harder, more personal questions on the list of things. _Who even knew word foreplay was a thing, huh? I wonder if that's the actual term... eheh, might have to ask Clark,_ he frowns, _if I can reach him without being lasered in half, ripped to shreds and/or punched into the sun. Mm. Should check on our relationship status, perhaps._

It is no secret that Todd now has… less than adequate relationships with people he used to know. After he was resurrected, things became immeasurably complicated to the point where he had social anxiety at a debilitating degree. Everyone would either stare, murmur between themselves and behind his back or straight-up question him. No one could seem to accept the facts and fiction; everyone wanted in on the little details he was quite happily going to keep to himself.

 _"Oh darling, are you okay?"_

 _"What happened to you?"_

 _"Is it… you know… are the rumours true?"_

 _"You should have been more careful. Why'd you be so foolish?!"_

The thoughts slowly send him mad like a constant dripping from a leaky tap. The water droplets drip whenever they can, succumbing to gravity and free falling to the drain beneath them. The sound is loud, loud enough to make Jason draw his bottom lip between his teeth anxiously while his brows furrow hard enough to begin affecting the very top of his vision. With coming back from the grave comes many problems, some of which have no easy cure of natural origins. In Jason's case, he has no choice but to call the mechanic in to fix his leaky tap, to make the noises stop their meaningless existence.

He swallows the antipsychotic dry.

* * *

 **Author's note: hello, everyone! I have no idea where this is going but if you'd like me to continue, you're gonna have to show me the love (please review/follow :3) because, otherwise, my lazy ass will forget about this whole thing. Have a nice day!**


	2. Chapter 1

In his own defence, Jason still manages to control the majority of drug dealing businesses in Gotham city; her mistress does not see very much unfair distribution of happy times. His handling of antipsychotic drugs is nothing too major, and it's just a small thing he squeezes from the sweaty palms of those under his eye. Any doctor would probably have a fit if they knew someone was taking them without an official reason, but luckily, Jason isn't a _someone_ anymore. He _used_ to be. Additionally, in his own defence, he never abuses them and some pretty good reasons as to their necessity is present. It's not too hard a thing to see if you know where to look, really. People aren't supposed to see things that aren't there, even if you know they don't actually exist most of the time, and auditory hallucinations are some nasty things to experience.

Jason was about to return to his couch, maybe check to see what free-to-air television could offer him in the form of reality shows and the like, but a very familiar sound shatters the interview's continuity. Quite literally. The camera's glass fractures with little lines across it, making a kind of spiderweb to obstruct what scene is in front of it. There's another gunshot, then things go dark, returning to the news room where the lady—Angela, he recalls her name—sits with a slightly disappointed face. The fact that reporters are no longer scared when an attack happens during a live interview is somewhat upsetting, and Jason finds himself leaning forward on his island counter. Dick would definitely be okay, he always manages to be relatively fine, but the same can't be assured for Jones.

Rushing through the short length of his corridor, the vigilante bursts into his bedroom to search for his outfit, all the while calculating the situation. _That shot was smack-bang in the middle of the lens, so the shooter was either lucky or very skilled (seeing as though they'd be positioned some distance away to creep past Nightwing's eye) but based upon the abbreviated albeit calm time before the next shot, the latter is a more likely option. Dickhead will've ducked to the ground, taking whoever's still alive down with him, which was probably the designated camera man, seeing as though the view needed to be impacted for what was about to go down. But why would they bother to hide the blood? Unless they're preparing to go down and take down Nightwing as well... they will fail miserably, I might not even get there in time to see the fun. Hmm. _He finishes the last part of his preparation by slipping the notoriously famous hood over his head, but hesitates to leave at his bedroom door. _If I show up after everything it might look as though I care about Dick's wellbeing because I took my time reaching that place specifically… but I could throw the accusation off by saying I was just enjoying the view… no, that's way too easy to question. Hold up. What the f—k am I saying? I don't care. I'm just going there to make sure this isn't something bigger, is all. Yes. _

Satisfied with his makeshift excuse, Jason only takes a little glance at the TV on his way past. _Now_ they really are talking about the weather.

 _"Heavy rain as far as the eye can see…"_ he smiles subconsciously.

* * *

Knowing Gotham like the back of his hand comes in handy—puns aside—because scaling buildings is done with ease and navigating himself through all the streets is not hard. The alley Nightwing was last known to be located is a kind of… freckle amongst the known skin; something that wasn't there before but has popped up thanks to a nasty bout of sunburn. Its existence is acknowledged now, of course, but it's a more recent discovery.

 _Note to self: go out some more. Get off your ass and expand your territory._

As of the past few months, Jason's patrol routine has undergone some changes to differ from that of the Bat's. He goes out during sunset for a quick scout, finds some plans, maybe stops a few petty muggings, but otherwise stays low on the ground to remain relatively hidden. That continues for the span of a few hours before he returns home to eat dinner, have some leisure time and a quick nap if he deems it necessary. Then, when nightfall has fallen entirely and the city lights fire up, he goes and executes anything he had in mind, be it swinging from rooftops to look for trouble below or straight up killing some idiots whose plans had been spilled previously. Granted, Batman and his _charming_ replacements are still patrolling during those hours, but he's usually mapped out areas they're more prone to visit each night and he goes back earlier.

There's a lot of effort put into things, seeing as though Jason's only hoping to avoid four specific humanoids on the face of this planet.

Moreover, tonight would be breaking the cycle his mentality had just adjusted to, so he is right royally pissed _and_ intrigued to discover what's brought him out here in the first place. The burning desire to find out only grows when he fails to hear sirens in the direction the alleyway takes him. In fact, it's peacefully quiet in nearly every aspect, aside from the pigeons that nest on every single building.

"Move, b—h!" He kicks his leg out at a persistent specimen resting upon his targeted landing spot. You can only do so much to shoo away an animal when you're soaring through the air, but the sheer speed and prospect of a large, bulky _thing_ coming towards oneself is usually enough to fly you away out of pure instinct, or so he had originally thought. They must be getting used to people jumping around at night these days, which is a slightly sour thought.

 _I'm gonna kill your un-poultry ass if ya don't move in the next two seconds…_

Just when his foot was about to hit the ledge and the nonchalant birdy's chest, it flaps away, almost falling downwards because of the hulking weight in its belly. He'd obviously been the victim of a free feast and had enjoyed every last little bit there was to offer.

Jason executed a roll to break any fall damage he might gain, seeing as though a shattered leg doesn't sound very fun, especially when there'd be no choice but to visit the manor for treatment. Alfred would fuss and make those small frowns, clearly disappointed in the lack of warning beforehand. Jason loves surprising him if only to put his mood on a wavering scale, because—entertainment aside—it makes him more likely to oblige with keeping his visits a secret, strangely enough… not that it'd be possible to conceal something as large as a broken leg; the old butler would simply _refuse_ to let his new patient leave the house. Anyone who knows about the chemical mixture this family creates would also know that such a thing could only lead to massive amounts of pure disaster. _There'd be a lot more broken bones for Alfred to deal with if I went ahead and stayed there so, let's just… not. _

The desired destination was nearing quickly, though Jason couldn't say that his heart was still as calm as it were when a pigeon's life was on the line. How could he possibly be caring for a dick more than an animal? Or maybe he's worried for his own safety, seeing as though the (possible) murderers are yet to be caught, in his current library of knowledge.

That's when he hears an excited squeak that can only come from one idiot on this cursed planet, and his heart rate actually does skip a few beats in 'absolute terror.'

* * *

 **Author's note: sorry for the short chapter, just letting you all know I'm alive and remember this thing. By the way, do you guys want Dick and Jason's relationship to be platonic (friends) or… something more *lenny face*?**


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's note: sorry this chapter has taken so long to come out, but I've been under a lot of stress lately. There's been a death in my family (I didn't personally know them) so a lot of my family has been down, I'm going on some meds for mental issues soon and I'm just a bit busy with work etc., sorry.  
**

* * *

 **Warning: some blood is in this chapter… but you shouldn't really need a warning for that.**

* * *

Little brother!" Dick's voice calls cheerfully, though there's a strange undertone to it, a subtle difference from the usual. It—unfortunately for Jason—hasn't been _too_ long since he had last seen his adoptive brother, so it couldn't be that he's missed him greatly. Besides, if that were to be the case, Jason would be fighting for dear life under a huge bear hug. The air would be choked from his lungs slowly, painfully… in a way that only one experience can top.

Jason frowns beneath his mask, fingers suddenly twitching. _Gotta break through the wood. Dirt. Wood. Survive. Must survive. Dig. Bruce? No, Dick. Survive. Wait. No. Silly idiot, you're not in there. Move. You're not in there again, look, the sky. Look at the sky, Jason. Move your fat eyelids and_ _look_ _!_ Thoughts such as those involving flashbacks can occur at any time for the poor anti-hero, though a trigger is usually what causes the gun to shoot. In this case, it was nothing more than his brother, whom was approaching him… with a limp? It could simply be a prickle in the meshes of his too-tight-for-comfort suit. Goodness knows how silly he can be about stuff like that, especially if it'll entertain someone nearby, which is probably his goal. Nightwing always sets a singular goal when he meets Red Hood: to make him laugh, or even chuckle. A small hint of amusement is his aim, and even if it usually ends up with him getting a slap across the head, he can tell Littlewing enjoys the company. Being alone for so long isn't healthy for anyone, especially when the anyone in question is someone whose brain is a bit… squished.

"Little brother," he says again with a little less enthusiasm, closing the distance between himself and the aforementioned male slowly, as if to be cautious. It brings Jason back from the edge of whatever he was about to fall into, and his hand reflexively goes up to rest on his gun, which is securely placed in a hip holster. All it would take is approximately three pounds of pressure to launch death towards this man; he could end someone's existence so easily… it would just take a small… blood drop? Blood splatters behind Nightwing, or it sure seems like blood. To be sure, Jason activates night vision in his technologically advanced helmet and magnifies everything he sees, focusing in on the world just behind limping legs. _Yep, that's blood_ , he confirms to himself, grimacing. It seems Dickhead had gotten into trouble tonight, after all.

"Have you been shot?!"

"Uh-huh." Nightwing stopped at the building's ledge, looking forward in a way that didn't appear too promising. If this is some kind of joke or prank—which it probably isn't, given his unexpected arrival—it isn't funny in the least, Hood decides.

"Where?!"

"M' back." A considerably dangerous place to have a bullet strike, but no the most lethal. Jason sighs and pulls out his grappling gun, aiming and shooting to meet the injured vigilante waiting for him on the building opposite to his current—now former—location. He can't help but wince a little when the figure slumps forwards into his arms, occupying his personal space without permission. "Don't move, you idiot. Lemme look at your back," he growled, though not unkindly. Being rude and consumed with an infinite rage would not help anyone here, in fact, it could only do the opposite. At a time like this, the opposite could be _fatal_.

Making his way around Nightwing's body while holding it up from the not-so-soft ground, he finds his wound quite quickly. _Latissimus dorsi_ , he sighs to himself, carful hands stretching the space around the bullet's entrance to further examine its location. He now knows _where_ it is on the vigilante's back, but how _deep_ it's gone is just as important, if not more. If it's managed to go all the way through… well, the overall mortality rate will go up by a s—t load, though if it's still lodged close to the surface, things won't be as bad. Jason silently hopes for the latter, prying the hole from two opposite sides. "It didn't go in too far," the sufferer answers the observer's question weakly. He's lost all the joy in his voice; all the enthusiasm has bleed through the cracks in his skin, leaving him an empty shell that's clearly experiencing pain. A twisted part of Jason wants to laugh in his face, to dig his digits in the new weak spot harshly, hearing the screams surfacing through the dry male's throat all the while chanting in his ear. _"How do you like it? Where's Bruce to save you?! How. Do. You. Like. It?!"_

"Umm… Red?"

"What?" He hisses a little too harshly, though he doesn't regret it.

"I think… can we sit down? Standing is a bit… _uch_ , hard." In any other scenario, moving one's body would be extremely dangerous with a bullet in them. Not only do you risk the obvious things like falling over and cracking your skull because of a loss of conscious or shock, but, particularly in chest wounds, you can gain collapsed lungs. The air enters and doesn't leave, complicating things a lot more than necessary. _Seeing as though it ain't a sucking wound, thus he's not in immediate danger, I'll… what am I going to do with him? Call Batman? No, no that's not an option. I could treat him here on the rooftop, but he's too noisy for that kinda s—t and I… I forgot my medical supplies, dang it. All this freaking rushing and preparation 'n' I can't even manage to bring the basics!_ He felt like pulling his hair out.

While he continues to consider his options with careful consideration, Dick's whole body _throbs_. He was already in a pretty deep level of pain when he first came out tonight—he really wanted to take a few pills during the interview and held back only for the viewers' sake—but now it was borderline unbearable. Testing Jay's patience and limits was a suicide mission, but he really couldn't keep himself up for much longer, even with two bracing hands on his biceps that seemed to be squeezing harder than they ought to be. "Red…" he groans, moving a foot back to tap on the boot behind him gingerly.

"Think you're up for being carried, princess?"

* * *

The trip back to Todd's apartment was filled with a slightly awkward silence, and both former Robins were sighing with relief when they finally arrived. Jason was growling some threats into Dicks ear, probably something along the lines of being decapitated were he ever to share this place's location and significance, but he was too tired to care. In response he only offered a lazy smile.

"Wipe that smile off your face or I'll punch all your teeth out, before making you swallow them down that pathetic throat of yours."

"I've missed you too, Jay."

"Mm."

He helped him over to a couch and frowned. The colour was light, so stains would be as broad as daylight and he couldn't really afford to buy another should some stains ruin its appearance. Dick's existence would forever be burnt into his living room, which is a big 'no' in Jason's mind. Why on earth the cheapest couch couldn't be brown or—even more convenient— _leather_ was beyond him, though he'd still rather it over nothing or something plastic. Goodness knows it would probably collapse under his weight. "Can you stand by yourself for a second?" He asks pensively, looking down at the face that seemed to be considering his question. A quick "yeah" is his only verbal response, so Jason assumes the worst and walks over to a corner wall, propping Dick's body up against it like an annoying plank of wood that was no longer necessary for constructing whatever had to be built. "Don't slump or you'll hit it," he warns with a finger poking his chest, initiating contact by its own will. His bathroom has a few towels to lay down on the couch; a small assurance that it will be relatively clean once he's finished patching the idiotic vigilante all up. Grabbing the ones that he can definitely identify as being clean— _not that they would be messy for any… oh that's disgusting—_ and easy to acquire, Jason wastes no time. A bullet wound is grave, no matter the situation its found, and he didn't really want to explain why a certain Bat's golden boy has suddenly dropped dead in his apartment. _The whole freaking Justice League would be after my head… Diana would provide the noose, Clark would deliver the glare that sears into your soul and judges your inner moralities… Batman would remove the floor beneath my feet. And then what? Peace? Nah. They'll have some undead dude to mess me up in wherever I find myself next, or maybe J'onn will mess with my head 'n' convince me to wanna live, only to die. Can he even do that?_ Completely oblivious to the time he's wasting, Jason has an empty gaze fixated on his shower. Not too long ago there was a case of black mould behind the tiles so he's had to do a bit of DIY renovation in this room.

If only he could be as talented in renovating bathrooms as he is with guns.

"Jay," Dick croaks, "not to intrude on whatever you're… doing, but I really want some painkillers."

"You insinuating that I have them? That I am in constant pain? Well, lemme tell you, Grayson…" he turns a corner to see the subject he's addressing and forgets the hostile words in his head, like a switch was flipped and the words were dumped from his memory. Helping him walk over to the couch, he doesn't flinch when a body leans against his back before slowly leaving to sit on the couch once towels were laid down properly, tucked in at the corners to ensure they don't fall off. Jason, in truth, has a lot _more_ than some simple pain relief capsules in his cabinets and fridge, but he couldn't even remember the argument he wanted to have—not properly—so the issue is at rest, quietly snoring in a grave where it would remain undisturbed until someone decided to dig it up and resurface it to the world. Dick would advise him to see a psychiatrist if he didn't know better… then again, if everyone who _knew_ Jason didn't know better, he'd probably be in a mental asylum, locked up in a strait jacket.

That's just the way he is.


	4. Chapter 3

After a trip back into the less-than-appealing bathroom to fetch some consumable pain relief, Jason opened the door of his fridge wide, though the space wasn't really necessary. Its almost completely devoid of items besides a container towards the bottom housing all his… _stuff_ and five million freaking sauces in the door. He isn't even a parent, but still he has fallen into the hands of the terrible disease that causes men and women to collect salad dressings and ketchup within the sides of their refrigerative boxes obsessively.

"Jason… has Alfie been in your house?!" He knew the answer would be 'no' because—besides the fact that Jason would never permit someone access into his safehouse under normal circumstances—Alfred would never…. _Never_ use products brought from the store. He's the sort to buy his produce from the most genuine markets and everything he can possibly create is made right at the Manor, which includes the horrors in Jason's tall, bleak and slightly uneven kitchen appliance. Dick's face, now that its unease has been smoothed over with calmness, showed an exaggerated disgust. It was as though he had just stumbled upon Bruce during one of his 'social outings' with a girl from that night's event.

Jason bent over without replying, but a small smirk was twitching his lips upwards from their otherwise horizontal (slightly downward-bent) state. When he returned to a vertical position, he had two bottles of beer in his hands. "Here. Swallow it down with this," he holds his left arm out, and, upon closer inspection, it appears as though the drink it's holding is microscopically emptier than the one in the right. Dick would've chuckled, but he was a bit boggled by the fact that he was being offered beer in the first place. Sure, he wasn't a man to deny a bit of drinking, but at a time like this? It didn't seem very right. "I'll… take a glass of water, thanks."

"Pussy," was teased in return. Jason knew the offer would probably be denied but he still made sure the drink with 'less' liquid quantity was lowered, because he _is_ a kid at heart, honestly. A deranged, extremely violent and unnecessarily vigilant kid.

A loud screeching interrupts the mutual silence between them that had fallen, and Dick wants to raise his hands to his head, but he can't without a surge of pain. Jason wants to do the same, but he's prevented from doing so because he's turning the resistant sink's tap and holding a glass to be filled with water. _I should probably take a look at that, someday…_ he opines mentally, watching the translucent glass in his hand slosh up with water after a few seconds of delay. In reality, Jason's entire apartment ought to have some DIY renovation, but he doesn't want to risk duplicating the horror that is his bathroom. It would end in a perilous place to live without any safety hazards, as improbable as it may sound.

"Gee, who died to make _that_ sink?" Dick asks when the tap is finally turned anti-clockwise, ending the spouting water and, with it, the sound. He immediately regrets the question when it leaves his mouth, but there does not appear to be any negative response in Jason's posture, so he's dodged the bullet… this time. If only he could say the same about his incident an hour or so ago; if he could've missed _that_ bullet none of this messy business would've been conducted, and he would be left to meet Jason under a better circumstance… not that there are any, really.

"Not me," Jason gives the glass of water to Dick, and upon seeing the slightly depressed look on his facial features, he adds a quick "pussy" for good measure. The treatment of his wounds would definitely be a bit distressful, so the current goal is to make him as resistant to the pain as possible. No matter how many times you get hurt a certain way, you still manage to feel it. Jason would know this, of all people.

All of Joker's swings hurt. Each one felt like the end of his life.

It never stopped hurting.

A visible movement in Dick's throat tells Jason the two pills have been swallowed in one gulp, and for a brief moment he can't help but imagine what the pale skin would look like with his mark… mark being knife, of course. Right in the centre, straight through the skin and mush inside. He'd keep his head up until his heart stopped completely, and then it would lower itself to rest on the hilt. Blood would trickle everywhere, melding with the blue bird on his chest and the black material of its surroundings. _You'd never speak another stupid joke ever again. The last flying Grayson would fall to the hands of a brother he could never f—g love. How poetic._

"So, little brother…" he attempts to make conversation, not missing a beat with each word coming through his mouth. One of Dick's best skills is socialisation; talking is easier than breathing for him. But that's not to say he can't inhale a bit too much dust on occasion and cough. Jason is a pretty good thing to collect dust—when you live two lives and get really 'ancient,' that can happen—so it's a little harder to work his charm around him. "How has life been treating you?"

'Well, I'm alive. That's gotta count for something," Jason shrugs, opening his bottle of beer. "You?"

"Tonight hasn't been my best, but things are good. Mmm, you should have tried the roast Alfred cooked up last week-"

"Don't try that s—t on me 'till I'm drunk, Dickhead."

"Sure, just try not to get drunk until you've fixed my back up, please," he chuckles good-heartedly.

"You going to shut up and turn over for me?" Jason felt slightly repulsed by the amount of enthusiasm Dick was radiating. When he had found him on the rooftop, all the happiness was disabled and taking a nice vacation somewhere in Hawaii. Now, however, it has come back in its new flashy sunnies to kill him with a (very _cheerful_ ) conga line.

His older brother turned to lay on his stomach, grunting slightly when friction demanded pain from him. There was an invisible zipper that Dick used on his back, which is probably why it manages to be a one piece _and_ simultaneously skin-tight. You'd never get the same combination so flawlessly if things worked out as a pair of pants and a weird shirt. "Ready?" He could theoretically just start without permission and laugh when Dick winces at the sudden removal of his suit (honestly, it's just _skin_ , really) but he figured he should play nice, if only to have a more cooperative patient. "Have you got everything?" Was the initial reply, but the words were soon followed by a "tools, I mean."

"Of course." With that query taken care of, Jason moves a tiny flap of fabric aside to reveal a black zipper. He tugs it downward and meets the pale—at least in contrast to the suit—skin Dick inhabits. There's scars all over him, but he's like a newborn baby in comparison to Jason, whom wears a million marks worth a trillion words. "Y'know, it's probably easier to just cut it off, now that I think about it. Can you get it off your arms?"

"Mhm," the body shifts upward, and the brain within it tells arms to begin pulling. Jason helps Dick pull the outfit off his shoulders, especially on the wounded side, seeing as though the latissimus dorsi was affected, which helps with movement in the upper limbs. He pauses at the waist momentarily and shoots a death glare. _I swear, Grayson, if you somehow don't have anything on under here…_

The entire world sighed with relief when there were a pair of black boxers hugging Nightwing's hips.

When everything was done and dusted, he gently pushed Nightwing—no, _Dick Grayson_ —against the couch. The bullet wound is closer to the couch's back, unfortunately, so he's going to be leaning over a sad, sorry idiot for several minutes while trying to maintain his hands from shaking out of pure anger. The circumstances would not do at all. To resolve the issue, he could shift his patient over to the bedroom, but after all the arduous work and effort he's gone through just to set up here, he can't really be bothered moving a sack of weight and the towels underneath it. Deciding there's only one alternative to his current situation, Jason sits up on the couch and straddles Dick, giving him perfect access to the wound in need of treatment. _He'll never forgive me for this, but I can just add it to my pile of 'I give zero f—ks,'_ he thinks sourly, retrieving a pair of needle point tweezers. The wound's diameter is wide enough to allow him to reach in and begin pulling the bullet out, but Dick hisses in protest, kicking his legs—that are slowly gaining pins and needles, thanks to Jason—up and down.

"Stop being such a sook!" He growls, pulling the tweezers out and away before he can accidentally hit something to cause more bleeding.

This would be a long surgery.

* * *

 **Author's note: Sorry this has taken so long to upload. Honestly, you should not expect any kind of uploading schedule from me because my life is the definition of hectic right now and I have a procrastination monster in my conscious.**


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